


A Man's Gotta Do What a Man's Gotta Do

by RileyC



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-07
Updated: 2010-06-07
Packaged: 2017-10-09 23:49:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/92909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RileyC/pseuds/RileyC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The ubiquitous bad ass Immortal's in town, Mac's going out to face him ... or, you know, maybe not.</p><p>This was written for a LiveJournal challenge, cliche_bingo. This is an HL 'verse where the series happened, but those movies are all the figments of someone's looped out imagination.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Man's Gotta Do What a Man's Gotta Do

Matt Kruger was in town. Joe Dawson had known how things would play out the instant he heard about that.

Mac would meet with Kruger, try to reason with the one-time World War I ace. Appeal to Kruger's better nature and sense of honor; qualities Mac always believed everyone possessed because they were as natural to the Highlander as breathing. Methos would nudge and prod, play devil's advocate and Socrates. All in the hope of pushing Mac's buttons in just the right sequence that would have Mac in prime form when the inevitable confrontation rolled around.

Or, feasible alternative: Methos would conclude Mac wasn't quite on his game this time, and - employing either devious manipulation or a straightforward bullet to the heart - would put Mac on the sidelines just long enough for Methos to take the challenge.

No reason to suppose the result, in either case, would significantly vary from all the many times before. On his worst day, Duncan MacLeod was head and shoulders, so to speak, above any comers. And the Old Man, well, he hadn't made it 5,000 years on luck alone; whatever he might lack in skill, Methos more than made up for in treachery and guile.

Idly strumming his guitar, fingers improvising a slow and sweetly sorrowful riff, Joe watched them over at their usual table, deep in the argument even now.

Methos was making inroads - with Mac, and the pitcher of beer. Kruger wasn't some marauder, strewing collateral damage behind him as he hunted down his own kind. Mac could walk away from this one and no harm done.

Joe could see Mac wavering; for a moment, part of him wanting to succumb to Methos' persuasive argument. Mac could retreat, could go out to the island and wait it out until Kruger moved on. Joe bet right this moment Methos was saying something about how discretion was the better part of valor.

It was a good rationale. Solid, grounded in pragmatism. And Joe could see the exact moment Mac rejected it: pushing back from the table and pacing over to the bar, bracing himself against it as he looked back at Methos, resolve slowly settling over him like a suit of armor. Methos saw it, too, shoulders slumping just a fraction with the realization, slouching further down in his chair, the rueful shake of his head saying, clear as words, Kids will be kids.

Some measure of concern colored Methos' reaction, though, deeper than he wanted to let on. Joe got it, saw it too.

The whole, utterly pedestrian quality of the situation had them both concerned for Mac. It was like how you might be dodging bullets and disaster all day, arriving home safe and sound at the end of it all, and then you go out for a quart of milk and get run down by some asshole speeding through a red light. Or, you were making your way through the jungles of Vietnam and stepped in the wrong spot at the wrong time, and the world turned upside down.

No reason in the world to imagine Mac wouldn't go out, take care of Kruger, and be back here for another round of drinks. And it wasn't Joe's place to interfere anyway.

But, you know, when the hell had that ever stopped him?

Mac had his coat on, was heading for the door - Methos refusing to watch him, as if a look between them could mean goodbye, Joe set down his guitar, reached for his cane, balancing on it as he called out, "Mac!"

"Joe," the Highlander turned back, took a couple of steps toward him, "no more talk. Kruger wants me, I'm not running away to hide."

"Yeah, I know you too well for that."

Mac held his gaze a long moment, nodded an acknowledgement that honored everything between them, and turned to leave - staggering, spinning around as Joe's shot struck home, astonishment and anger suffusing his expression as Joe delivered a follow-up, just to make sure, shot that turned out all his lights.

Methos' expression had shifted from thunderstruck to admiring, to accepting. "Well done, Joe," he said, climbing to his feet, reaching for his coat. "Keep him under wraps until it's done," he finished, slipping on his coat and starting for the door.

"That's the plan," Joe said, plugging him right between the shoulder blades.

Methos had time to turn, to stare at Joe and murmur, "You motherfucker…" before sprawling out alongside Mac.

"Yeah, tell me about it," Joe said, looking down at the two of them.  
~*~

 

Joe was behind the bar, polishing glasses, when Matt Kruger walked in, looking like a poster boy for Aryan Nations.

"Getting ready to close up," he said, watching the way Kruger scanned the room, crew cut head cocked, frowning like he was trying to pick up sounds only a dog could hear.

"Duncan MacLeod comes here," Kruger said, statement not question, accent heavy.

Joe shrugged. "The swans fly at midnight?"

Ice blue eyes stared at him. "What? You joke?"

"Me? Nah. Thought we were talking in code."

Impatient with that, Kruger repeated, "Duncan MacLeod, he comes here?"

"The antiques dealer?" Joe nodded, rubbing the rag along the already spotless of expanse of bar. "Guess he does. Last I heard he was on a buying trip to New York."

"New York?"

"New York, New Orleans, New South Wales. Shit, man, I'm just a bartender. You want something or not?"

"No, I want nothing." Looking dissatisfied, suspicious, but with nothing to pin it to, Kruger took one last look around and left.

Joe followed, explaining, "Gotta lock up," and watched as Kruger climbed into a black SUV, tearing away in a squeal of tires, red taillights vanishing in the distance.

Good enough, Joe decided, following through with the locking up, and gearing up for the rest of the night.  
~*~

 

"You're an arrogant, self-righteous--"

"Takes one to know one, MacLeod," Methos drawled, cutting the Highlander off in mid-rant.

Mac's glare switched to Methos. "Why don't you give him a round of applause? Been giving him lessons on how to be a devious bastard?"

Methos shook his head, took a pull of the beer he'd snagged from Mac's fridge. "On the contrary," he inclined his head in Joe's direction, "I bow before the master."

"You can both kiss my ass," Joe grumbled. "I did what I had to, I'd do it again in a heartbeat, so lump it." He finished his coffee and got up from the sofa, "I'll see you gentlemen tomorrow," he said, starting for the elevator.

There was a time when Joe wouldn't have been so sure of that. A time when Mac would have gone into Immortals-can't-mix-with-Watchers mode, shutting down - shutting Joe out.

Lots of water under the bridge since those days, though. Too many steps over that particular line in the sand to ever go back.

Watchers, Immortals … They were friends, and even The Game couldn't trump that.

He'd sleep easy tonight, and start it all over again in the morning.  
~end~


End file.
